


One Foot In

by lixabiz



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Gen, Pete's World Torchwood, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1992645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lixabiz/pseuds/lixabiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes they were all, ‘oh Doctor, please help us, you magnificent handsome alien hero!’ and then other times it was, ‘no entry to the club, humans only’. The Metacrisis!Doctor struggles with the trials of being a human timelord in a world where having one heart isn’t enough to let you fit in. Post-JE, Pete’s World, Tentoo/Rose ft. Alt!Donna. Follow up to Two Weeks In Norway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

  
On the roof of the mansion, where the Zeppelin had come to a rather bumpy landing, Jackie Tyler said before making a beeline for the stairs, “Tony! Tony! My baby!”  
  
Rose said, “Wait, mum! I’ll come with you!”  
  
Pete said, “I’ve got a few questions for you, Doctor. Come with me to my office.”  
  
And the Doctor - half-human, sore, queasy, naive, trusting, and still nursing a cold that had left his sinuses raw and inflamed since Norway - said, ‘Okay.”  
  
  
*

Pete’s office was really quite nice. There were big, masculine leather chairs, if you liked that sort of thing, and an oil painting of Jackie and the baby hanging on the wall behind the impressive mahogany desk. The Doctor, still unsuspecting at this point, was briefly indignant on Rose’s behalf. Why hadn’t _she_ been immortalised in pigments boiled in resin along with her mother and brother?  
  
Pete got straight down to business, derailing the Doctor’s train of thought. “Jackie told me there were two of you. One original, one human. You’re the second.”  
  
Oh, _this_. Right. Obviously. He made a tick next to Pete’s name on the mental list of people he’d had the same conversation with already. _Donna. Rose. Jackie. Martha, Jack, Mickey_ , back on the Tardis. _Himself_ , during his pneumonia-induced fever dreams in Norway.  
  
 _Nope_ , he told that part of himself sternly, the wibbly-wobbly part deep down - not gonna think about any of that.  
  
"You’re still the Doctor, though?"  
  
"Yes, I’m still the Doctor."  
  
"Definitely the same man?"  
  
Was he going to have to make a diagram and pass out copies of it? Two stick figures, one brown, one blue, with an equal sign between them?  
  
"Definitely. Same mind, same feelings, same memories. Just… human now."  
  
"So everything that Doctor did, that was you?"  
  
"Every single little thing."  
  
Pete nodded. Then he did something odd. He clenched his fist, pulled back his arm, and swung it forward in an arc. An arc whose descent ended by connecting with the Doctor’s face.  
  
The Doctor found himself sprawled out on the carpeted floor, blinking at the ceiling. Pete stood over him, shaking his hand and wincing.  
  
"That’s for making my wife and her daughter throw their lives on the line to save your ass," Pete said, looking down at him, his expression hard and apologetic all at once. "I know I’m being unreasonable. I know the stars were collapsing and the only reason we’re all still here is because she managed to find you. I don’t care. You’re here for good this time. If you ever make Rose cry again, there’s more where that came from."  
  
He held out his hand. The Doctor took it, dazed.   
  
Pete helped him to his feet, and slapped him on the back. Then, as though it was perfectly normal to knock someone out and offer them a beverage the next second, he asked, “Would you like a drink?”  
  
*

"Didn’t see that coming," the Doctor remarked a few hours later. He was lying on his side, a bag of ice wrapped in a towel pressed to his sore jaw. It was a strange feeling: numb, throbbing, somehow poignant.  He added wryly, "Pete’s got a swing on him, alright!"  
  
He filed this bit of knowledge away for any potential future family altercations. Jackie, right-handed slap. Pete, mean left-hook. If they attacked at once, he might not be able to dodge in time.  
  
Rose - poor, exhausted, concerned Rose - lay facing him on the mattress in the guest bedroom. “I’m sorry.”  
  
He gave her a very lopsided smile. “Not your fault. Deserved it.”

"No you didn’t!"   
  
"It’s very kind of you to say so, but -ouch!"  
  
"Sorry. I just can’t _believe_ he punched you! What on earth did you say to him?”  
  
"It wasn’t anything I _said_ \- fathers have been clocking their daughters’s suitors since the dawn of time, or something near it, anyway. It’s a fairly common romantic rite of passage across the galaxies. You can trust me on this.”  
  
"Ha. Don’t think so."  
  
"Why not? I’m most definitely a suitor," he said, dropping the ice pack to the floor next to the bed. He caught her hand and gave her his most ardent look. And since he had vowed to be patient and give her time, he waggled his eyebrows to let her know _no pressure_ , etc, etc.  
  
She smirked. “Not what I meant. We kind of had an argument before I left. Y’know.” Then she scowled. “Mum wasn’t supposed to drop everything and follow me, that wasn’t part of the plan! God, she’s so stubborn!”  
  
Rose looked down at their hands. He brushed his thumb along her palm, waiting for her to speak. She had that look she got sometimes - the one she reserved exclusively for her poor long-dead father. That look had led to near world-ending disaster in the past, but he didn’t hold it against her.  
  
"I said some stuff I probably shouldn’t have. Did Pete…?"  
  
"No, he mentioned nothing of the sort," the Doctor said neutrally. "It’s alright, Rose. I’m not upset about it."  
  
"Well, you should be." She pulled her hand free and traced his cheek, her touch gentle. He loved it. His heart soared even further, when she asked, "Do you want me to stay with you?"   
  
In response, he circled her waist with his arm and dragged her close to him so their bodies lay flush against each other, warm, connected. The same way they had slept that night Jackie had left them alone in a hotel room in Norway. Rose sighed, her breath tickling his collarbone, sending tiny sparks down his spine. She reached past him and turned off the lamp beside the bed, settling the room into comforting darkness. They stayed that way for such a long time that he thought she might have fallen asleep.  
  
But then, she whispered- “Doctor?”  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
There was a pause, a hitch in her breath. Her voice was soft and wistful. “I always wondered if my Dad… well, I had this terrible boyfriend, long time ago, Jimmy Stone he was called. Mum hated him! Should have listened to her. Would my Dad have punched him, d’you think? If he’d been alive?”  
  
"Undoubtedly," the Doctor whispered back. "I’m sure he’d punch me, too."  
  
"Poor Doctor," Rose murmured. "You’ve had a rough time of it. Nothing but rotten luck since you set foot here."  
  
 _True_ , he thought, sniffing, trying his hardest not to sneeze. They were having a moment, and it would be less than romantic were he to sneeze in Rose’s face right now. “It’s fine. Nothing I can’t handle.”  
  
"Doctor?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You gonna be alright?"  
  
"Course. I’ll be fine."  
  
"No," she repeated, quiet and urgent. "Are you gonna be alright?"  
  
"It’s just a cold," he said mildly. "And my jaw’s not broken, just bruised. Though in all likelihood I’m going to be sick for a while. My immune system’s still got a long way to go but I’ll survive, no need to worry-"  
  
"That’s not what I meant," Rose cut him off. "We haven’t talked about what any of this means for _you_.”  
  
He bent his head and pressed his mouth to what he thought was likely her forehead. It was hard to tell in the dark. He groped around metaphorically for an answer, came up with none. There was a time when he would have deflected, given a flippant response or made a confident joke designed to distract and confuse.   
  
Now he simply said, “I don’t know, Rose.”  
  
She sighed again. He felt her palm flatten itself against his chest, in the tight space between their bodies. “I can feel your heart beating,” she whispered.  
  
Through her fingertips, through his borrowed shirt, through his very skin he felt it too, beating in time with the slumbering piece of coral in the bedside drawer. No different from the one that beat in Rose’s chest. The same. He circled his fingers surreptitiously around her wrist, grazed her fluttering pulse, understood it.   
  
_This is what it means_ , he thought with sudden clarity. _This heartbeat. This single pulse._ What he had - it wasn’t half a Timelord heart, as he’d feared. It was a whole human one - strong, steady, imperfect. The same as everyone else’s.

"Rose?"

She was asleep.

  
_To be continued._


	2. If It's Alien, It's Ours

  
A/N: I took a few liberties with the politics behind Alt!Torchwood in this story. My memory of Pete’s World is a bit sketchy, so if anything is very obviously wrong I apologize.  
  
  
*  
  
Rose picked up her phone on the third ring.  
  
"Is it possible to reschedule dinner for tonight? Only by a few hours," the Doctor said, clearing his throat. "8pm by the latest."  
  
She pulled the lid off her steaming cup of coffee and tore two packets of Sweet’n’Low open. “What did you find?”  
  
"Alien spores encased in artificial sweetener crystals! Diabolical! Gotta run, ring you later!"  
  
Rose sighed, hung up, walked to the end of the hall, and dumped her coffee out.  
  
*  
  
"I can explain," he began, holding up both hands placatingly. "The maître d’ is an alien from outer space with nefarious plans for the entirety of the human race. And possibly the entrée, saw him nipping back into the kitchen a few times. It’s all very suspicious."  
  
Jackie spat the mouthful of pasta she’d half chewed back onto her plate, just as Rose came bursting out of the kitchen doors. Across the restaurant, the maître d’ took one look at her and legged it.  
  
"Sorry, mum!" she shouted, running past the table.  
  
Jackie coughed feebly, glared at the Doctor, and reached for her wine glass.  
  
"Better not," he warned, raising both eyebrows meaningfully before dashing after Rose.  
  
*  
  
The Doctor stepped back, shoving his fingers into his hair.  
  
"Ah, well, bit of a hiccup, really. Door’s made of wood, you see, and I haven’t got around to making a setting for that yet. Still. Oops." He shrugged apologetically.  
  
"Stand aside, Doctor," she said.  
  
"What? Why? Has Torchwood invented a wood resonating frequency?" He asked, both excited and alarmed by the possibility. Could he have let them get the slip on him so early on? Toshiko Sato was brilliant, yes, but such technology surely was realms ahead of her capabilities.  
  
Rose nudged him out of the way. She lifted her boot clad foot and kicked the door in. Literally.  
  
"Right. That works too."  
  
Rose grinned. “Keep that in mind next time you spend an hour in my bathroom in the morning.”  
  
His eyebrows lifed so high at that comment they were almost in the rafters.  
  
"Come on, get a move on!"  
  
*  
  
It was precisely three months, eight days, fifteen hours and forty-six minutes from the moment the Doctor had landed in Norway in a parallel world. It was his thirty-seventh day reporting for work since starting his ‘consulting’ job with Torchwood and his first solo meeting with Pete Tyler since the, er, punching incident.  
  
But they were past that now. They had an understanding, he and Pete. They were friends. Comrades. Pete had given him a job, and the Doctor had babysat Tony in the early weeks of his arrival, when the entire Tyler family had been called into Torchwood for briefings. Strangely neither Pete nor Jackie had asked him again, though he had offered his services multiple times.  
  
"Look," said Pete now, his tone both friendly and understanding, "You’re doing great. The number of alien arrests you’ve made in the last two weeks alone, it’s record-breaking."  
  
The Doctor sat up, excited. “Is my probation over, then?”  
  
"Well - no," Pete admitted.  
  
The Doctor slumped in his seat, disappointed that he’d not been called in on his day off to hear good news. He didn’t really care about days off, but this one happened to coincide with the end of Rose’s miserable three-day sojourn to Wales, and they’d had plans to spend some alone time together upon her return.  
  
He missed her terribly. Despite living together and working together, it was unbelievably difficult to find time to _be_ together without the company of irate co-workers or invading aliens getting in the way. He yearned for the days when they could tumble back into the Tardis after an adventure and dematerialise into the furthest reaches of space, away from prying eyes and paperwork.  
  
"There’s a bit of a problem," Pete was saying, looking grim. "I’ve received some instructions from above."  
  
The Doctor brought his attention back to the conversation at hand.  
  
"From the Assembly," Pete clarified, his tone grave.  
  
"Well, I didn’t think you were talking about the Heavenly Father," the Doctor muttered, highly  unimpressed. "Oh go on, tell us! What does the mighty Torchwood Assembly have to say?"  
  
"They think you’re unfit for recruitment."  
  
The Doctor was dumbstruck. Pete quickly added, “It’s just… I mean, you’re a mite unpredictable.”  
  
"Unpredictable," repeated the Doctor. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Well, you’re sort of… winging it, aren’t you?"  
  
"Winging it? Winging it!?"  
  
"Well, aren’t you?"  
  
"No!" he cried, and then, crossly - "Well, yes! I suppose so! But that’s a method that’s worked very well for 900 years, thank you very much!"  
  
"That may have been the case, in your original Universe," said Pete calmly, "But it’s rather terribly dangerous here, don’t you think? Just look at the case with the Garm, you were totally convinced he was harmless. I had to call in six different favours to get that one to blow over."  
  
"He _was_ harmless in the other universe!” The Doctor said defensively. “He saved people with radiation! A proper intergalactic canine bipedal oncologist!”  
  
"Yeah? So the laser guns, you thought he was going to use them to do what, exactly? Treat Mr. Chatterjee’s gout?" Pete shook his head as the Doctor bit back a sarcastic rejoinder. "And the factory? The one you flooded with sulfuric acid?"  
  
"That artificial sweetener factory was a breeding ground for approximately 6 billion miniaturized gastropod eggs waiting for fertilization, and you’re welcome!"  
  
"You disintegrated an entire block of factories! Jake’s so traumatized by that case he’s refused to work with you ever again!"  
  
"Be thankful I didn’t strangle him," the Doctor muttered darkly. A brightly coloured coat flashed through his mind; he shuddered, and wondered if perhaps becoming a hermit might not be such a bad idea. "The entire human race would be walking alien incubators right now if not for-"  
  
"Doctor. You can’t put this off any longer."  
  
Something in the tone of Pete’s voice made the Doctor pause mid-rant and pay attention.  
  
"The People’s Republic insists on a certain level of transparency when it comes to Torchwood. The last time we had visitors from another dimension… well, you can understand why we have precautions. All agents undergo thorough medical and psychological examination prior to assignment. Rose was no exception."  
  
"I see."  
  
"I’ve got a written order here that says you’re to report to Laboratory 6 on Level 2 before end of day. There’s a medical examiner waiting there for you. The results will be sent directly to the Assembly for deliberation. They’re to come to a decision on your probation status within three weeks, and in the meanwhile, you are to refrain from active duty. Any and all cases you have undertaken will be under review."  
  
"Blimey," said the Doctor, rubbing his neck. Pete never did pull his punches, did he?  
  
*  
  
Torchwood Charter, Article 2: _All Members of the Institute must act in accordance to the prime directive, that being the security and defense of the human race against extraterrestrial threats._  
  
Article 5: _All Members of the Institute must not engage in, or have existing affiliations with persons or states of non-Earth origin. The Council Assembly shall determine the existence of any threat to the security of the Institute, as decided upon by the People’s Republic Act._  
  
Article 7: _The admission of any individual to membership in the Institute will be effected by a decision of the General Assembly._  
  
Translation, all articles: _Only humans work for Torchwood._  
  
 _Figures_ , thought the Doctor.  
  
*  
  
"Take a seat," the medical examiner said, hastily pushing a cart full of equipment into a spare corner. Vials of blood clattered against each other, and a device that looked uncannily like a 24th century genetic tissue multiplier was quickly hidden from sight under a plastic sheet.  
  
Unbidden, the words floated into his head. _If it’s alien, it’s ours._  
  
Rex O’Shaunessy was a short, shrimpish chap in his early thirties. He grabbed a clipboard and pen from the desk. “Shall we begin?”  
  
The Doctor clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Righty-ho! Where do you want me?”  
  
"On the examination chair, please." He made a mark on his clipboard, scribbled something. "I have a few questions."  
  
"Oh, do ask."  
  
"You say you’re, ah, part-Timelord? What does that mean, exactly?"  
  
"Not very much, here. They don’t exist here, you see. Now they don’t exist anywhere, so it’s a moot point. But, yes, to answer your question, I am indeed half-Timelord."  
  
"That’s a race?" He scribbled again.  
  
"Yep. Very boring lot, to tell you the truth. Full of self-importance and arrogance, but with the genius to back it up. Most of the time."  
  
"From what little information we have, the Timelords appear to be an advanced species. Is it true they have the capacity to fully regenerate every cell in their bodies?"  
  
"They were. And no."  
  
"No?"  
  
The Doctor shook his head. “Can’t regenerate. I’m human. Full of human DNA, me.”  
  
O’Shaunessy was not daunted. “May I check your pulse?”  
  
With a reluctance he couldn’t explain, the Doctor allowed the examiner to take his pulse and check his blood pressure.  
  
"Told you," said the Doctor. "I’m very much human now. Came from another dimension, yes, but as you can hear there’s just the one knocker in here."  
  
"You admit that you’re from an alien world?"  
  
"Well, I was, long time ago. Earth’s home now."  
  
"Are you-"  
  
"No, ‘fraid not."  
  
"I didn’t finish the question-"  
  
"You don’t need to."  
  
"I have to disagree."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"About the pertinence of my questions, sir."  
  
"Don’t call me that," the Doctor reprimanded mildly. "And I never said your questions weren’t pertinent."  
  
"Can I go on with them?"  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
"What percentage would you say, sir, of your genetic makeup is comprised of human and how much is alien-?"  
  
"I have no idea!" He replied cheerfully. "Nothing like me before! Fresh species, I am! Exciting, isn’t it?"  
  
"Very," said O’Shaunessy. He reached around the counter for a syringe.  
  
The Doctor caught his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. “No,” he said. “That’s not going to happen.”  
  
"Sir-"  
  
"No," he repeated. "Give me that chart, please."  
  
"I can’t just-"  
  
"I’ll run the tests myself," said the Doctor.  
  
"That’s not how this works," said O’Shaunessy.  
  
The Doctor smiled. “Rex. Rex, isn’t it? Let’s talk.”  
  
*  
  
Toshiko and Owen were arguing bitterly over by the water cooler just down the hall when the Doctor finished up in the examination room. He thought he probably ought to go over and break it up, for the sake of maintaining order, but his services were not required. The fight ended by way of Tosh flinging the contents of her paper cone in Owen’s face. He tried not to gawp, but failed.  
  
"Look on the bright side, it isn’t alien goop!" The Doctor spoke to Owen in what he considered his most friendly, most relatable bloke-to-bloke tone, and with a matching grin to boot. He pulled his tie free to reveal the stained hem. "Least yours comes off with a towel!"  
  
"Find that funny, d’you?" Owen spat, wiping his face with his sleeve. He stormed past the Doctor, growling, "Eavesdropping wanker."  
  
The Doctor sighed and missed Rose even more. He turned the corner and suddenly there she was, as though his thoughts of her had somehow lovingly conjured her into being. She was standing by the receptionist’s desk, holding her jacket.  
  
He sauntered over, grinning and ignoring the crazy way his heart was ricocheting inside his ribcage at the sight of her. Was that normal?  
  
She looked exhausted, and her smile didn’t reach its usual ten thousand mega-watt brilliance. He didn’t think her heart was leaping at the sight of him and it was really rather stupid of him to feel disappointed about that.  
  
"How did your physical go?" she asked, by way of greeting.  
  
"Oh, tremendous," he said breezily, glad that she seemed to be up to date on the situation. Pete must have called her. "No surprises, really. It’s all just details at this point. But that’s the point, isn’t it? They say the devil’s in the details, Rose, and I’m inclined to agree. So I plan to keep those devilish details to myself."  
  
"Don’t think you’re gonna get away with running all the tests yourself and not telling anybody about the results."  
  
"Oh, don’t worry. I’ve taken care of it."  
  
Rose looked inquiringly at him, but he wouldn’t say. Plausible deniability, that was the name of the game. If she was put out by it, she didn’t say so.  
  
They exited the building and stepped into a warm, early evening. The Doctor blinked, wondering how it could have got so late without him noticing. He pushed that thought down, way down, because it didn’t bear thinking of.  
  
So he asked, casually, “How was Wales?”  
  
"Wet," said Rose.  
  
"And the Kestrovaal?"  
  
"Bloodthirsty."  
  
"How many were there?"  
  
"Five. We captured two, they’re in holding cells now."  
  
He didn’t ask what happened to the other three, and Rose didn’t tell. He peered at a zeppelin floating above them with interest, scratched his ear. “Did you miss me?”  
  
"Yes," she said, linking her arm through his. There was a hint of a smile in her voice. He felt like he’d been outmanoeuvred but didn’t know how, or why, or if it even mattered.  
  
"I couldn’t sleep," Rose continued, bumping her shoulder against his. "It was awful."  
  
"Oh." Well, nevermind. Rose was back, she hadn’t been able to sleep without him. He asked, immensely cheered, "Can we get chips?"  
  
"I wish. No, we’re having dinner at mum’s. She rung me just now. Guess what she’s been doing all day?"  
  
"Oh no," groaned the Doctor. "Not again!"  
  
"I told her, there’s no way you’d be caught dead in a purple shirt-"  
  
"Well, actually, there was one time-" he began, but the thought went forever unfinished by the simultaneous buzz of their mobiles going off.  
  
"Must be bad if they’re calling both of us back," the Doctor remarked, turning his head to look over his shoulder at the premises they’d just vacated. "I’m supposed to go home and twiddle my thumbs for three weeks while the Assembly decides upon my fate."  
  
Two escaped Kestrovaals and a grueling six hours later, the Doctor and Rose were sitting in a room, filing paperwork. The Doctor ran out of space on his form before he could finish explaining the difference between indigenious specimens and those who had descended from immigrant settlements on Quazadrous 3 approximately ten centuries ago; so he took a shortcut and drew a diagram of their life cycle in the margins and added a quick disclaimer regarding a possible deviation from his existing knowledge of them. They seemed to be the same, but he couldn’t be sure.  
  
He was starting to think maybe he ought to do something about these… gaps in his mental encyclopedia. It had seemed like a great adventure to take the creatures as they came but perhaps Pete had a point after all.  
  
Someone kindly offered to bring them food from the canteen while their papers were processed but Rose declined. Which was just as well, because the Doctor was actually hungry now. He didn’t feel like staring at a plate of something that Torchwood kept trying to pass off as stew but was fooling nobody. It had chunks of what the Doctor thought might be soylent green, or organic tofu, or perhaps-  
  
"Let’s go, Doctor," Rose said, scraping her chair back. "I’m starving and I’m exhausted. I want to go home."  
  
The Doctor didn’t argue, and the agents sitting outside the room cleaning black blood and other grimy bits off the walls barely looked up as they left.  
  
Unfortunately, by home, Rose actually meant the Tyler mansion. The Doctor was so ravenous by the time they arrived he was actually happy to see that Jackie was waiting for them with her cooking. He dug in without a qualm, as did Rose, while her parents went to tuck little Tony into bed. The conversation inevitably turned to the topic of his upcoming break from work.  
  
Rose speared a broccoli head with her fork, lines forming in her forehead. “This is serious, Doctor. Torchwood doesn’t fool around when it comes to-“  
  
The Doctor interrupted, firmly, “Rose, there are other people working at Torchwood who aren’t exactly locals, either, and everyone looks the other way. Don’t worry. I’m human where it counts.” He patted his chest, puffed it out a little for her benefit. “Never went a decade without a government agency trying to recruit me. My reputation precedes, etcetera, etcetera.”  
  
Rose didn’t take the bait, didn’t flirt back.  
  
"Are you really that worried?"  
  
"It scares me," Rose confessed. She laced her fingers tightly around the glass of water she was taking sips from. "It’s exactly like how it was before, you an’ me. Holding hands, fighting monsters, having a blast, laughing in the face of danger. All that good stuff."  
  
He smiled, puzzled. “Why does that scare you?”  
  
"This part. The bits in between. You, settling for… this. You don’t like it, at all, do you? This job, it’s not what you want-"  
  
"Rose," he began, and paused, uncertain.  
  
She was right, of course. He didn’t _like_ Torchwood. He didn’t like the paperwork. He didn’t like the waiting or the periods of inaction that punctuated every mission; he didn’t like instructions from above. He didn’t like the majority of the people, which was unfortunate, because the Doctor hated not liking people.  
  
Craving contact, he reached over and took her hand into his own, fingers brushing her pulse. And just like that, he knew what he wanted to say to her, what he wanted her to know. He didn’t have the chance, however, as right at that moment Pete entered the dining room and went directly to the wine cabinet. Rose pulled her hand away.  
  
"Sorry. But I really need a drink. Had to wait until after Rikke got all the rest of the tiny trolls home from the great Fjords. Twice." Pete sat heavily, decanter in hand. "So. I suppose I don’t need to ask what you did with the test results?"  
  
"I have no idea what you’re talking about. My test results have been administered and submitted to the Assembly as requested."  
  
"Good." Pete poured himself a drink. "I’m sorry, Doctor. You’ve done good work since you came onboard and you’re being treated poorly for it. Phillips will take any excuse to undermine me."  
  
"Phillips?" Rose said sharply. "Assemblyman Phillips?"  
  
"The one and same," Pete replied. "That bloody bastard."  
  
"I take it you’re not fond of the fellow," the Doctor commented. It was an understatement. Rose and Pete wore matching scowls and the family resemblance was never more apparent.  
  
"He’s not the sort to inspire anything except loathing."  
  
"And a swift kick to the arse," Rose added.  
  
"Worst sort of political windbag to ever walk the earth. He’s been pushing this wretched reform campaign of his for years, the ‘Humanity Preservation Act’ he calls it."  
  
The Doctor felt a curl of distaste in the back of his throat. It never boded well, when zealots with political power decided they wanted to _preserve humanity_. It led to words like ‘purity’ and ‘supremacy’ and had ended, once, with a megalomaniac in a metal chair waging a war against all of existence.  
  
Pete was still speaking. “Bunch of nonsense, but it caught on when the stars went out. Conspiracy nuts banding together to blame the impending apocalypse on Torchwood.”  
  
"They wanted us to hand over all our research," Rose said. "Anything even slightly alien in origin. All tech. Anything - anyone - we’d detained. Including me."  
  
The Doctor’s head snapped in her direction so fast he thought he might have sprained a neck muscle. “You never mentioned-“  
  
Rose shook her head dismissively. “Nothing came of it. The dimension cannon started working, and that was that. They barely came after me.”  
  
The surge of unnamed emotion that had welled up in his chest abated slightly. But his pulse, pesky little thing, still raced at the thought of Rose under persecution.  
  
"I did a DNA test," Rose shrugged. "Solved everything."  
  
Of course. The tests would have definitively proved that Rose was the genetic offspring of Pete and Jackie Tyler, parallel universe or not. The Doctor saw Pete shoot a fleeting glance out of the corner of his eye in Rose’s direction, but it was so brief he could have imagined it. He was quite certain he hadn’t.  
  
"Anyway," she said offhandedly, "Torchwood was nothing compared to how Vitex reacted to me."  
  
He frowned. “What?”  
  
"My board investors threw a hissy fit over inheritance and company shares the minute Jackie and I went public," Pete explained. "Rose signed away all her rights in exchange for a cash buyout when I retire. Now they’re fighting over Tony, but they can’t make him sign anything until he’s legally of age."  
  
"I’m going to give that money to Tony," Rose said to no one in particular.  
  
There was a brief moment of silence, in which Pete didn’t acknowledge or deny her statement, which the Doctor took to mean it was a topic of controversy. He looked back and forth between them, his eyebrows raising of their own accord.  
  
"Anyway," Pete sounded weary. "Phillips and his cronies can do their worst. They used the public’s fear to force their way last time, it won’t work now. Alien or not, you’re an asset. I’ll make them see reason. In the meanwhile, Doctor, enjoy your break."  
  
"Ah, about that!" the Doctor said with some measure of added enthusiasm, sensing that Rose and Pete were tired of recounting the past. He acquiesced to the change of topic with alacrity, eager to share a plan he’d been formulating in his head. "I was thinking that I might take this opportunity to do some research. Because I think you made a very good point, Pete. This is a different world, and I need to get to know it better if I’m to do my job properly. If I get the job."  
  
"Research?" Rose asked, surprised. "How, and what, exactly, are you researching?"  
  
"Everything! The history of this world! I’ve been meaning to, you know. Just haven’t had a real chance. Thought I’d start with the British Museum, should only take about three weeks to get through that," he mused. "Once I get my approval, I’ll fill in the gaps with Torchwood’s archives in Cardiff. It’s about time I begin doing my homework, don’t you think?"  
  
Rose seemed ambivalent. “I suppose so.”  
  
"Do try to stay out of trouble," Pete said, downing the rest of his two fingers of scotch.  
  
"I always do," the Doctor replied. "Don’t I, Rose?"  
  
She smirked. “Yeah. Trouble finds you, and you like it.”  
  
"Can you really blame it though? I mean, look at me! There wasn’t anything like me in this Universe before," he said, relishing the words as they formed on his lips. "Or any Universe! I’m brand new."  
  
"Will you stop that? Telling people you’re ‘brand new’ all the time, it’s very off-putting," said Jackie, making her entrance into the dining room with a large bag. "It’s not surprising Torchwood’s launching an investigation into your background, if you bang on all day about how alien you are!"  
  
The Doctor rolled his eyes. But he had been preparing for this moment since Rose had informed him of Jackie’s afternoon activities and he was ready for a battle.  
  
"What’s even more off-putting is the fact that you won’t stop buying clothes for me!"  
  
"Someone’s got to!" She thrust the bag at him.  
  
He shoved both hands into it and seized something grey. “This is revolting, what is it?”  
  
"Cargo pants," said Jackie.  
  
"They look like they belong in a barge," said the Doctor, holding up the offensive item in question. "What size are these?"  
  
She scrutinized him and sighed. “Size too big, obviously. Could fit three of you in that one leg. I’ve been feeding you so much and you’re still a walking twiglet, for god’s sake. Thought you were human now! Men your age start putting on weight ‘round the middle, that’s normal, isn’t it - what’s wrong with you?”  
  
"Men my-" He was outraged! "I- I’m not wearing cargo pants!"  
  
"You’re worse than Tony! No jeans, no t-shirts, no cargo pants! I’ve tried everything! Are you going to spend the rest of your life in that suit?"  
  
"I have more than one!" he retorted hotly. "I only wear this one at home!"  
  
Pete choked on his drink at this juncture, inadvertently ending the argument. He coughed so violently that Jackie forgot all about the Doctor’s scarce wardrobe options and went to thump her husband on the back. Rose was overcome by a fit of the giggles for some reason, and for the rest of the night kept helplessly lapsing back into laughter.  
  
*


	3. The Thin Man

It was past noon. Rose was still sleeping. The Doctor was not.  
  
"Rose. Rose. Wake up."  
  
Rose snorted. It might have been a snort. But she was lying face down and the sound was muffled and the Doctor was too concerned about her ability to breathe in such a position to try to suss out the meaning of her incoherent emissions.  
  
"Maybe you should turn over," he suggested. "Try to breathe air instead of tiny duck feathers. It’s better for your health." She remained worryingly still. "Rose? Rose. Rose. Are you awake?"  
  
No movement. He poked her, gently, in the ribs. “Rose. Rose. Hello? Anybody home?”  
  
She moaned something that sounded like ‘you win’ and lifted her head to yawn. “What time is it?”  
  
"Twelve-oh-seven," said the Doctor. "Twelve-oh-eight, now. I think this clock is losing time. Swiss crystal, that’s the problem, inferior to Gallifreyan crystal by a factor of one bazillion gazillion. The second hand always gets caught for a tiny fraction in the mechanism at 0:25 seconds on each pass, unnoticeable to the naked eye, but I’ve been watching it for an hour now. You’re losing an average of 0.02 milliseconds per day, doesn’t seem like a lot but it multiplies to an astounding amount by the end of the year, so really, you’re better off…"  
  
He flopped back onto the bed and babbled on contently, describing his top five human-made time-keeping discoveries while Rose went to the bathroom, relieved herself, and brushed her teeth. She came back and sat down next to him, just in time to receive the end of his educational speech.  
  
"You can tell, then, that the clock is off? You’ve still got the…Timelord senses or whatever?"  
  
His mouth felt strangely dry as he answered, his eyes focused on the ceiling, hands folded on his chest. “Still got it. Diluted, but it’s there. Time senses are reduced, I can still tell if an event is a fixed point in history or if its in flux, but most minor timelines are blurry, indistinct.” He squinted at a crack in the paint right above the bed, barely visible. “Like I’ve lost my contact lens in both eyes. I’m still mildly telepathic, if I really concentrate,” he went on. “But everything’s a bit quieter now. Peaceful.”  
  
"Do you like it?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Being human."  
  
It was the first time she’d asked him that outright. Truth be told, he’d been avoiding it, because he didn’t know how to answer. They had talked, oh, the talking had been done, all the talking that could be talked by a big gob like his, he’d talked it all. He was good at talking and saying nothing. Like riding a bicycle, you never forgot how to do it.  
  
Now he said, slowly, “It’s not so different from being a Timelord,” knowing that he was lying and that Rose certainly wasn’t fooled. “I’m adjusting to this new body. I’ve done that before.”  
  
"You never changed species before," she pointed out. She bent over him, putting one hand on either side of his head. "And you didn’t answer the question."  
  
"Sometimes it was like changing species," he murmured. "Never really knew what kind of man I’d turn out to be."  
  
"You’re always the same man," said Rose without hesitation. He met her gaze and felt unaccountably warm inside. They were very close, her face just inches away from his. Just like that, his silly little human heart began to beat a little faster.  
  
Rose’s mobile rang.  
  
She pulled back, making a face. “Sorry. It’s Pete’s ringtone.” She reached for her phone, sliding out of bed. “Hello? Pete? Again?”  
  
The Doctor sighed, shutting his eyes against the wave of disappointment. The stars had seemed aligned. He’d had plans. Hastily formed ones, but good ones. And once again they were quite terribly dashed, those plans, along with a few hopes - on the rocky shores of the land that was called Wales. He was starting to develop a great distaste for blasted Wales.  
  
Apparently an outbreak of Weevils had occurred there and it was quite the dire situation, requiring the formation of an emergency team of experienced agents. Rose, who had dealt with Weevils before, was afraid it would take more than a week to clear up.   
  
The Doctor stood balanced on the curb, watching as Rose loaded her gear into her car. He scratched at his earlobe.  
  
"Good luck with the research," she said, tossing her packed bag into the back seat. "I’m sure Pete will have everything sorted, you’ll be back to work in no time."  
  
"I have great faith in him," the Doctor replied dutifully.   
  
"I’ll see you in a week."  
  
"What," he asked cheekily, "No hug for luck?"  
  
Rose went to him and wrapped her arms about his middle, tucking her head into his chest. Had he known she’d oblige so easily he’d have asked for a good luck kiss. Just a wee one would do, on the cheek even, he’d settle for that. Oh well. There was always next time.  
  
He let go, sighing a little. “Be careful with the weevils.”  
  
"What, no kiss for luck?"  
  
The Doctor had already turned away and was reaching for the gate. At her words he spun back, mouth open, all thoughts of going back inside forgotten. Rose seized him by the lapels, smirking, and kissed him for all he was worth.  
  
*  
  
To distract and entertain himself, the Doctor decided he would take the London tube to the British Museum and start his research. He checked on the Tardis coral, currently living in the bottom drawer of Rose’s bedroom dresser.  
  
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the Doctor tenderly lifted out a bundle of blue fabric and set it on his lap, unfolding his old suit jacket to reach into the dimensionally transcendental pocket that held his precious baby. He measured her lovingly, a tricky task considering his current screwdriver model was still only a prototype and didn’t have half the settings he was used to.  
  
Satisfied that she was growing very well indeed, he nestled her back into her hiding place and locked the drawer, placing the key into his trouser pocket, which was sadly dimensionally non-transcendental. When he had the time to figure out how to transplant the pockets out of the jacket… well, that would be the day!  
  
He resisted the urge to open and check the contents of the middle drawer, which contained… _things_ … that belonged to Rose. No peeking, he told himself. He wanted the first sighting of her… _things_ … to be when they were on her person, so to speak.  
  
Anyway.  
  
The Doctor headed out the door, whistling a jaunty tune to himself, an old one from the other earth. He ran an absent-minded hand through his hair, remembering the feel of Rose’s fingers tangled in it as she’d kissed him that morning before leaving.  
  
London was bustling as usual, full of people rushing about, some going places, some going nowhere. The Doctor found that he was quite pleased to be among the crowd. It was a singularly human experience, walking down a 21st century London street. He was just like anybody else, just as human and alive and going about his own business.  
  
The British Museum looked the same here as it did in his original Universe. He followed a german family of four inside, admiring the red balloon on a string that the youngest child was holding with pride. He looked a little like Tony, and the Doctor wondered if Tony might like a red balloon as a souvenir.  
  
The family veered to the right. The Doctor paused, looked both ways. If memory served, if he followed the arrows and turned left-  
  
Ah, yes. There it was. The gift shop.  
  
*  
  
"Right this way, please!"  
  
Donna Noble kept her expression neutral and pleasant, though she was feeling anything but. Being a tour guide was bloody harder work than it looked. She had to give Tina credit for holding out as long as she had, all the while being six months pregnant to boot.  
  
 _Who in their right mind would want one of these?_ she wondered, staring at the little terrors that made up about half the group she was leading around. These were not children. They were little Hannibal Lectors, bent on destruction and mayhem and eating each other’s livers when their Mummies and Daddies weren’t looking.  
  
Substituting as a tour guide on a Sunday afternoon was not part of her job description. It was not improved by the the added stress of having one of the children escaping his buggy restraints halfway through and scampering off like a shot.  
  
His mum looked ready to cry. Poor woman. She shared the same affliction as Tina: she was growing one of these inside her. And the one she had already popped out seemed intent on making a go of being England’s youngest Olympic sprinter. She’d never be able to catch up to him, not in her state, and all the other parents had their hands full with their own wiggling, squabbling offspring.  
  
Donna grit her teeth and turned to the intern that had been assigned to help her for the day. “Suki, make sure this lot don’t wander off. Keep them calm and bored. I’ll get him.”  
  
"Okay," said Suki dubiously. Donna didn’t blame her. She was five-foot-one, weighed 95 lbs soaking wet, and had the authoritative control of a pack ant.  
  
She set to chasing the little bugger. He was bloody fast for a three year old! Donna finally caught up to him in the gallery next to the little shop by the entrance - by that point she was breathing heavily. Blimey, she was out of shape, she probably should do something about that. Maybe run more often?  
  
There was just one person in the gallery, thankfully, and Donna realised this was it - her chance to seize the boy. He didn’t have crowds of people to weave in and out of; that had been his tactic up until this point. Donna gave it her all and gained on him, she was so close, so close, _just a little bit more, you little devil, I’ve got you-_  
  
"It’s all wrong," she heard the man mutter under his breath as they ran past him.   
  
_Tell me about it_ , Donna thought darkly, as the boy did a sudden u-turn and circled around the man’s legs, giggling wildly. She made a grab for the boy’s hoodie but missed and none too gracefully slammed into the poor bloke, her chin hitting his back rather painfully.  
  
"Oof!"  
  
Mortified, she sprang back. The man tried to untangle himself from the child currently using his lower limbs like a jungle gym, lost his balance, and pitched forward at the waist; one hand slapping against the glass display case with sickening force. It shook, terrifyingly, for a moment, and then settled, no worse for wear. Donna winced, her breath catching in her throat.  
  
"I’m so sorry, sir!" Donna exclaimed to his back, as he righted himself. Just in time for the child to grab the bottom of his suit jacket and use it to leverage himself so he could dash off again in his original direction.  
  
"Excuse me," she huffed, and hurried away again, failing to notice the way the stranger - whose face she hadn’t glanced at - was staring after them, one hand in his mussed hair, mouth agape.  
  
*  
  
"Strap him down tightly," Donna advised, wiping her brow.  
  
The grateful mum did as she was bid, uttering heapings of thanks on Donna, who accepted them with a terse nod. She gave the wriggling boy a look of Death, he volleyed with a psychotic grin.  
  
 _Bloody children. I am never having any_ , she vowed devoutly. Which was just fine, as she’d also vowed that she would never get married again.  
  
Resuming her lead from Suki, who looked relieved, Donna took up the reins and led the way through the rest of the stops on the tour. Suki bolted as soon as they were done, claiming she had to go get ready for her Economics course - and Donna resigned herself to covering Tina’s evening tour alone.  
  
Donna’s afternoon continued on a downward spiral from there. She grabbed a quick lunch from the food court and ate at her desk, managing somehow to spill soup down her front. After deciding the stain in her lovely green silk blouse was a lost cause, Donna attempted to cram three hours of work for her actual job into forty minutes. It was sloppy, and she’d get flack for it, but at least it was done.  
  
Then she discovered that she had under an hour to print out the informational pamphlets for the evening tour and memorize them. Suki was supposed to have done it yesterday and have it ready. Donna was going to kill her.  
  
Naturally, she discovered then, that the printer wasn’t working.  
  
Donna let loose a bellow of fury from her lungs; a sound she had never made before. It echoed satisfyingly around the empty office.  
  
There was the sound of footsteps and Donna looked up to witness a thin body skidding to a stop just past the door. A tall, skinny, funny-faced bloke with sticky-uppy hair in a vaguely familiar blue suit grabbed the doorframe and frantically yanked himself back into view.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asked, wide eyed. "What’s the matter?"  
  
"The bloody printer’s not working, that’s what’s the matter!" Donna shouted at him. It was totally uncalled for, but she was bloody fed up and couldn’t hold back. She took a deep breath, grimaced, and said, in a more normal voice, "Sorry. What you heard just now was a scream of frustration."  
  
The worried look dropped from his face, to be replaced by a relieved smile. “Is that all? Phew. You scared me! That sounded remarkably like the battle cry of the Naveet-Karondi, I thought you were being attacked by a Senti- er…” he trailed off, suddenly looking self-conscious. “Thought you might be in trouble.”  
  
 _So you came running?_   
  
Donna had never seen him before, but that was normal, research fellows and interns and curators came and went like clouds on a windy day in this building. She was surprised because she’d thought the floor was empty - the other members of the department were off on an expedition somewhere up North.   
  
As for the gibberish about her being attacked by a Nana-wotsit, well, the science-y types around this place were always babbling on about things Donna didn’t understand or have any desire to understand. She was an administrator: she administrated. At this particular moment, she did her job by administering a kick to the printer.   
  
"Can I help?" He stepped into the room without invitation. There was an inexplicable eagerness to him, somehow, though his body language and expression held nothing but casualness.  
  
She sighed and glared at the offensive item in question. “Don’t think anything can help this piece of junk. Except maybe a one-way trip to the landfill.”  
  
Her would-be saviour was a gangly thing, maybe a touch better looking than average, with nice eyes and hair that was inappropriately youngish for a man of his age. Donna reckoned he was about a couple of years younger than herself, that all-too-common specimen of modern male: mid-to-late thirties on the outside, a perpetual child on the inside, especially judging by his choice of footwear. Burgundy sneakers with a blue suit - really, some men needed to get their eyes checked.  
  
"May I?" He asked, interrupting her mental derision of him. He gestured at the printer. "I could take a look at it for you."  
  
What did she have to lose? she thought prosaically. “Can you? I’d be grateful.”  
  
He came over and looked down. For like a second. And he said, “Oh, easy-peasy lemon-squeezy! I can fix that for you in a jiffy!”  
  
He nudged her aside and fiddled around with the wires. A couple of minutes later, he straightened up and exclaimed, triumphantly, “Aha. There we go. All done!”  
  
"Thanks," Donna said, skeptical. It didn’t look fixed.  
  
"Anytime," he replied, beaming at her. He stood there, smiling, tapping his red sneakers against the floor in a staccato rhythm. Staring at her. Waiting.  
  
"Thanks," Donna said, again, regretting submitting to the impulse to let him ‘help’. He wanted something in return, now. If he thought she was going to invite him round to the pub for a drink, or to dinner, or anything like that, well, he had another thought coming. He seemed to be unmarried, but maybe he just didn’t wear a ring. There were men who did that. Donna knew all too well.  
  
She glanced at his ID badge, and found none. Was he a doctorate student? Or a scientist? The ones she administrated for were always forgetting their keys and ids. Academics might be intellectually brilliant, but Donna had never come across a lot that needed as much babysitting as they did.  
  
"What are you doing in the office? I thought you were all off to Chester for that thingamabob."  
  
"Eh?" He seemed puzzled. "Oh, you mean- oh, no, sorry, I don’t work here."  
  
She asked, sharply, “What?”  
  
"Well, actually, you see…" He pulled a leather case out of his pocket and flashed it at her. "I’m a researcher. Here’s my temporary pass."  
  
"That’s for the library and archives," Donna said warily. The elevator that led to this floor required a particular kind of key card to operate - the type that only employees were allowed to be in possession of. The one he had was handed out to visitors. It wouldn’t give him access to the staff elevator.  
  
He looked down, frowning. “Is it?”  
  
"That’s on the other side of the building."  
  
"Is it?" He repeated, and rubbed his neck, grinning sheepishly. "Well that explains the lack of Ancient Greek tomes around these parts! Thought something was off!"  
  
The joke fell flat. Donna narrowed her eyes, her hackles rising. “Why are you wandering around in this part of the building? It’s staff only.”  
  
"Oh! Right!" he said, blinking rapidly, like a deer caught in the headlights. "There’s a missing child, you see! The family I came in with - their little boy’s disappeared. His mum’s worried sick, so I’ve been looking about for him. Thought I’d ask the staff for assistance."  
  
"That’s what the security desk is for," Donna huffed, calculating the odds of her being able to overpower him if he tried anything funny. He was a scrawny thing, probably didn’t weigh much more than she did, she could probably take him. Possibly. Maybe. 50/50.  
  
"I’m not dangerous," he said, seeming to read her mind. "I swear. I just thought you needed help. So I came to help."  
  
Strangely enough, she believed him. But that was ridiculous and didn’t make any sense. He was definitely snooping around, she could feel it in her bones. Donna gripped the edge of the table and said, confidently, “For the record, I don’t think I believe this story of yours. Sounds made up. You trying to steal something or what?”  
  
"Would I stop to fix your printer if I were?" he asked reasonably. "Seems counter-productive."  
  
She gave him a look of consternation.”Well, go to the security desk and ask them for help. They have something called cameras, you see. Records moving pictures of people.” She couldn’t help the note of sarcasm that crept into her voice. “They can use that to look for your wayward child.”  
  
If- _if_ \- his story was true, then she felt sympathy as someone who had done her own fair share of running after monstrous tots. Crossing her arms over her chest, she asked, “Shall I call security to escort you back to the Library?”  
  
He shook his head, and Donna felt like she’d kicked a puppy. “Do me a favour, will you, mate? Don’t go wandering in the staff areas, it’ll only get you in trouble. Thanks for having a go at the printer.”  
  
He nodded, opened his mouth to say something, seemed to think better of it, and shut it again.  
  
"If you need m- if you need help again, I’m available," he offered, backing out of the room, "If the printer still doesn’t work, I mean. I’m quite handy with electronics." He winced, covered it with a cough. "I’ll be around all day. You know. Here. In the museum. If you need me."  
  
He fancied himself some kind of knight in shining armor, she thought. Donna wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than him being a pervert, thief, or psychopath, or all three. “Right. Thanks.”  
  
"I’ll go now, shall I?"  
  
"I think you’d better."  
  
He walked off slowly, giving the impression that he was dragging his feet.  
  
 _Weirdo_ , she thought, watching him go. She pressed the button, the big blue one, and copies began to shoot out at regular intervals.  
  
 _Handy one, though._  
  
*  
  
"What’d you do to the printer? It’s working well. Really well."  
  
"Got it fixed."  
  
Colin sat heavily at his desk, opposite hers. He was assistant to the Curator, meaning he was theoretically her boss. But he acted like her pal, a trait Donna found very untrustworthy in employers. It tended to lure a person into a false sense of security, made you think everything was hunky dory and that you were one of the family and then next thing you knew you were getting a pat on the back and a severance check that was a pittance for 10 years of devotion.  
  
"Hallellujah! How’d you manage that?"  
  
"I have my ways," she said, mysteriously. Colin liked that and laughed.  
  
The lights suddenly flickered. The room was shortly pitched into darkness, for a good thirty seconds, before coming back on. Donna gasped. Her monitor screen was black.  
  
"This cannot be happening," said Donna.  
  
"Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear."  
  
"I cannot believe how this day is going. I’ve been putting out fires left and right since this morning!" _And you’re being totally useless!_ Donna thought, glaring at Colin. Who was, in fact, sitting on his arse, being completely useless.  
  
Ten minutes later she was on the phone, shouting at some hoity-toity bloke in the IT department who was trying to foist her off with a vague promise of someone coming to look at their machines the following week. Was he out of his mind?  
  
"What do you mean, the technician can’t come until Tuesday? It’s Saturday. I said, IT’S SATURDAY. What are you, deaf?"  
  
"You. Have. Got. To. Be. Joking," Donna shouted. "I need these computers fixed TODAY. I NEED THEM FIXED FIVE HOURS AGO."  
  
Her face darkened dramatically, and Colin felt himself shiver, just ever-so-slightly. Donna scared him, in all honesty, but he was determined not to let her know it.  
  
She set the phone down. He licked his lips, nervous. “What… what did they say?”  
  
"He hung up on me," Donna said, in a deceptively calm voice. Colin recognized the look in her eyes. Whoever that IT bloke was, he was doomed and he didn’t even know it.  
  
"What are we going to do about these reports?"  
  
It took a moment before she replied. When she did, it was slow, thoughtful. “I think I’ve got a plan,” said Donna, rising to her feet and heading towards the door. “I think I know where we can find someone who can fix this.”  
  
She just hoped her Thin Man was still in the building.  
  
*


End file.
